Sweet Hatred
by Angael
Summary: "That saying, about how you always kill the thing you love? Well, it works both ways." Warning: Character death, gore. My usual readers prolly shouldn't read this! HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARLEQUIN! Thiefshipping love! I luurrvv you.


**DEDICATED TO ARIE. xD HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE ANGSTY BLOODY SADISTIC MASOCHISTIC MENTAL THIEFSHIPPING PARTNER, HOWEVER OLD YOU ARE TURNING. **

**Oh goshh... Just watch. I'll either end up partially insane, in jail, or severely depressed thanks to you. HAHAHA. IT'S TOTALLY TRUE TOO. XD**

**Summary: He had learned to love every touch. Every thrust. Every scream that left his throat raw, just like he'd learn to hate every breath. Every bit of pain was more wonderful than the last, until he felt nothing at all. Thiefshipping.**

**Rating: M, for mentions of sexual content ;;. and gore and depressing stuff xD**

**Disclaimer: I own no Yu-Gi-Oh, nor Chuck Palahniuk and his awesomeness! xD **

**I put Check Palahniuk quotes all throughout the one-shot, JUST FOR YOU. **

**Warnings (please read): Rape, Character-death, blood and gore**

**I'm back in England right now, having a great time. I love youuu. (:**

**Arie, you have officially tinted my innocence of a 13 year old girl.**

**Beta: Rohanfox , WHO I OWE A BIG THANK YOUS TOOOO. 3**

**xxx**

"_That saying, about how you always kill the thing you love? Well, it works both ways."_

**xxx**

**Sweet Hatred**

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

They had an understanding of each other.

Bakura had recognized it the second he had laid eyes on the small twelve year old boy - and those deep, daring (yet still innocent), amethyst eyes had... connected with him. They'd seen through him. They had questioned him. That's why the boy had recognized what he was, and turned to run.

Because Marik had seen - no, Marik had _known_ that if he didn't escape the white haired man, he would come to long for death.

But it was too late. Marik had looked into those cruel, mahogany eyes and had somehow been sure that he wouldn't escape. It wasn't fate; fate had never been this cruel.

He could remember that when the man - someone he came to know as Bakura - had first taken him, he had hated it. He had sobbed every time. He had hated when he screamed, cried, begged. It had only taken one hateful night for the Egyptian twelve year old boy to break. Hate; he hated every look that the man gave him. How he despised that every bruise was a reminder of the night before, a reminder of the night to come. Marik detested every inch of the room he had memorized over the past 4 years; the dark red carpet with indulgent furniture; something that was undoubtedly stolen. He felt abhorrence towards the dark, extravagant curtains that adorned the blocked off windows – he remembered the moment so clearly, when he realized the reason why they were covered in thick wooden boards; so he never saw the light of day. Even the 19th century, French Romantic mahogany doors that reached up towards the (what seemed like) sky-high ceiling were an insult. Perhaps the worst thing of them all was the king sized bed though, decorated with jet black covers (for good reasons) which sent absolute revulsion through his body.

But that was what he had came to truly hate the most; himself. His body - his beaten, broken, bruised and abused body. Every limb was another reminder of something that had come to be. Every ache brought his thoughts back to his most recent encounter with his Master.

But that? That was all in the past.

You see, it isn't in human nature to live a life full of hate. Upon instinct, a person will learn to accommodate to their surroundings - become familiar with it, and it's quite probable that the ignorant animals called 'humans' will learn to extract pleasure from things that were once a cause of so much disgust and displeasure.

For example - imagine a person absolutely revolted and terrified by the taste of blood. If he bit, gnawed and tasted the coppery liquid that pulses and slithers through all mammals' skins enough, he would slowly begin to gain pleasure. Of course - blood isn't the only thing a person can get used to. There is nothing that a human being can't get familiarized to, if exposed for long enough.

_{f__ind out what you're afraid of and go live there}_

Marik. He's another example.

I guess you could say his story is a little more extreme.

All the poor teen had was this twisted world; that man's touches, that man's whispered sins. Those too-white walls. Those beautiful caresses in the forms of pinches; those pretty affectionate words that touched his ears in the forms of lies, those passionate kisses that held no love -

He adored them all.

Every bruise that adorned his skin had become a symbol that he was _alive_. Every tear that he shed when the pain was too great? It was simply a sign that emotion had not yet left him.

_{i__ don't want to die without any scars}_

Feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all. This is what Bakura had taught him. Bakura was his God; the one that he worshipped, the one that had become his obsession.

Most people, they're addicted to life.

Marik had no life. Therefore he had become fond of his deity, his world. His white world, his pale lord. His king.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

It hadn't always been like this, like Marik had said before. First he would fight; but that habit was quickly broken.

Then he would beg. He had learned not to make a sound unless it was a scream, or moan, or sob.

And now, he just did what he knew best.

Bakura would come back. Marik would stand up.

Depending on whether his master was in a bad or foul mood, the thief would either throw or push him onto the bed. Such treatment wasn't unusual in the slightest, of course. Marik was grateful for it. He was used to it. He _loved_ it.

_{masochism is a valuable job skill}_

After that, he was either bitten or pinched. Stroked or slapped. Licked or cut. Bruised, or scarred.

Most of the time, it was all of the above.

Following this - his bloody ghoul, _his _Bakura, would make sweet hatred into Marik's vessel of burning need. He'd take every sore and cold emotion of the world out on Marik's perishing soul. Harshly, cruelly; relishing in the Egyptian's pain as the ghost wouldn't rest until his release had been found.

Was that love? A release?

Marik's Master would then toss him off the bed allowing him to collide with the wall and lay in a fragile, broken mess on the floor; a thousand pieces of Marik's sanity glittering in the moonlight. Bakura, he would roll over, and go to sleep. From experience, the teenager had learned to begin cleaning up their mess; to clean himself, to tend to his wounds. And then he would take his rightful place on the cold, unsympathetic floor next to his God's bed. Then he would sleep, and when he awoke, his Idol would either be gone or getting ready to leave.

Bakura would come home.

Toy with him.

Make hatred to him.

Throw him down on the ground.

Leave him.

Lather, rinse. Repeat.

And, oh! How he loved it all. Every thrust that spread apart his marked body, every scream that was unwillingly torn from his bruised lips. Marik appreciated it all almost as much as he loved every drop of blood that fell from his body.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

At first, he had hated it. Blood meant danger; meant his death, if he bled too much.

But that, as before, was all in the past. The first, forgotten chapters.

Marik now loved the slick liquid the most. The smell, the taste. The addiction he had to blood might be described as a fascination, passion, a fixation. Seeing the blood trail down his body or from between his legs was beautiful. Of course, he hadn't always thought that way.

He could remember the first time, two years ago, when he had fallen into its beauty -

_Marik felt as though his body was burning. _

_He wanted to die, how he wanted to die. The tears that streamed down his face relentlessly and the screams that broke his hoarse voice weren't anything in comparison to the pain he truly felt. Why couldn't it be like most nights, where his blasted captor would simply use him and be done with it?_

_Why did the ghost of his nightmares feel the urge to torture him, to make him wish for death -_

Inhale.

_Exhale._

Scream_._

_- he hated this, this life, this body, this pain. This person. And from that hatred, he looked expectantly for a pale hand that was carving something into his distorted chest, the knife undoubtedly covered in a bitter liquid. He found only glimmers of white though; for the thief's hand was covered in Marik's deep bodily fluid. _

_Marik stared at that crystal hand as it carved, sliced, and engraved his skin. At first he could only watch with horror, but soon he could feel his gemstone eyes succumbing to shad -, and as he fell deeper, they were brought to a dark, dark purple._

_Every slash dripped more blood onto those ugly pale hands._

_Every scream that Marik let out just made his captor dig in harder, which splattered more of the slick scarlet in every which direction._

_He hated it. He hated that blood, which Bakura seemed to adore so much. _

_He always had hated it, but why was it so beautiful now? Why hate something that could make a person as sinful as his thief so pretty? So wonderful?_

_Maybe that's when he truly went insane. Because he could swear that the demon that hovered above him could read his every thought. Instead of holding back sobs and cries of pain, he could barely contain his moans and whimpers of pleasure. Bakura would no longer do intricate patterns, but instead choose areas containing so much blood that Marik thought he might lose what left he had of his mind. _

_When Bakura began to lick, suckle and bite a deep wound made by the knife, Marik could barely control himself. He wanted more, he wanted Bakura on top of him, he needed Bakura to cause him more pain, and if his captor didn't – well, he might very well die. _

_And his demon gave him his wish; the ghost made Marik feel more pain than was ever imaginable. And they made something that was so far opposite of love, it couldn't be called so. It wasn't sex; it was raw, unimaginable insanity. It was moaning and writhing and bloody pleas that were sometimes fulfilled but more often than not, denied. Marik was fucked and everything was _red. _Everything in his usually black and white world was suddenly in deep color, blood on Bakura's face, blood on Bakura's chest, and as Marik was impaled he could feel the blood drip from parts of him that would be impossible to clean._

_And that's how he fell into the darkest love you'll have ever seen._

_Because falling in love with pain is like learning to hate love. _

_The only way it ends happily is with one person dead while the other fucked their cold bloody corpse._

After that, everything was much simpler. Instead of hating, he learned to appreciate all the pain he was put through. Marik learned that he should be grateful for every bit of pain that Bakura graciously presented him with.

Now, don't get the wrong idea.

It wasn't all bloody, nor was it all sex.

Sometimes, they would do it gently; purely for the sake of enjoying every feeling and every physical attachment there was to "making love" (A laugh. It couldn't be called that – it was simply for pleasure. For insanity). If he was _really_ lucky, the thief would choose to place a hand on his head while Marik leaned against Bakura's favorite chair. A simple hand that would stroke the top of his head was the most intimate action they'd ever shared, and Marik loved it. He adored that feeling of need; because that was exactly what all this was. Even if Bakura denied it; the man required him. Marik _felt_ needed, after all. Bakura loved his blood just as much as Marik did - and Bakura needed a release, couldn't live without Marik.

But that was all in the past. A forgotten chapter.

This is today.

Today? It isn't about needing. Today is about Marik sitting by the bed patiently, like any other day.

When Bakura stormed in the room, eyes alight and breath ragged, hands and teeth clenched and anger boiling off him, Marik knew it would be a bloody night. He knew his Master was in a bad mood, and he didn't even have time to stand before the albino had clawed, dragged, and flung Marik into the headboard of the bed.

He remained silent, understanding the harsh treatment that was to come within moments. A part of him (a very small one, at that) felt a shiver of fear run up his spine, but the majority of his soul, his being, was nearly melting at the promise in those eyes, the pain he could already see that had yet to be inflicted.

His Master stalked forward, in no mood for foreplay, pushing Marik against the headboard, beginning to pinch and slap his legs apart.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

It had been established early on that the only article of clothing he wore was the chain that attached him to the bed.

Marik made no move to stop his reason for life; why would he?

How _could_ he?

A shove. A scream, twisted and morphed and mutated into a moan of pleasure and plea. No preparation. No words of nonsense and lies tonight. No caresses of love.

Harsh and malicious, the Monster above him put more anger and hatred into every thrust, push and plunge that penetrated deeper and deeper into Marik's remains. Shouts and cries fell upon dumb ears and he felt himself climaxing, the pain doing everything it could to increase his arousal. The fingernails that dug into his hips brought blood spewing over his skin, and his legs were stretched over his Master's papered pale shoulders. Faster, harder. When he saw stars and came, Bakura did not hesitate, did not pause, did not come with him. The ghoul above simply kept driving with that same force, until Marik was inevitably hard again. There was new pain; from being forced an arousal after such recent release.

This only turned him on more however, making him throb and moan and _scream_ like the slut he had turned into. His back arched again, and with toes curling he couldn't help but ejaculate a second time.

No hesitation.

This was no fairy tale; Bakura did not wait or respect him, the only show of Marik's release was the white pearly semen that covered his divinity's chest and abdomen, dripping down slowly till it mixed with the blood that helped lubricate Marik's sinful entrance.

As he became hard a third time, only then did he note that the spirit above him was becoming more frantic, more insane, more crazed. They rammed against each other, their bodies making a sickening smack as skin slapped against skin, lips meeting in a clash of tongues.

Not a kiss.

Teeth met with teeth, blood was drawn, lips were bitten. More blood was spilled - and it dripped down his chin, just adding one more stain to the hundreds that had already been imprinted on his flesh.

Marik felt strong arms encircle him completely, and with only one squeeze he closed his eyes, letting out a breathy gasp as he came a third and final time. As he clamped around the Monster above him, the man finally let out a growl, so controlling and possessive that Marik couldn't help the way his eyes fluttered. Stars danced before him as he arched into the feeling and threw back his head, he felt strong and sharp teeth attack his displayed neck and he could feel the sticky sick feeling as liquid squirted inside him, going deeper and deeper until he was coated on the inside, then dripping out of his cheeks.

_{it happens fast for some people and slow for others, accidents or gravity, but we all end up mutilated} _

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

He tried to recall a time when there had been a moment they'd shared that had been as intense and angry as that, although his mind came up blank. Maybe it was the haze that seemed to have covered him like a blanket, but for once, he almost felt loved.

Not needed.

_Loved._

The rage and disgust and fear that filled him to the brim at that thought forced him to be smarter than that; he began to move away, simply waiting for the furious ghost to shove him off the bed so he could begin to clean up the mess they'd made that night.

A tug.

Wide violet eyes stared at the albino phantom that held him tightly against his chest.

"Stay. Tonight, you stay."

Marik felt himself trembling, and for the oddest moment he wanted to push the specter away, to run and hide, to close his eyes and not hear those words. The tears that he felt prickle his eyes weren't recognized, and the emotion that filled his heart wasn't understood.

Joy?

Happiness?

Love?

He didn't understand these things; they were distant memories.

So he simply lay there, in his captor's arms, tears almost bubbling over his cheeks and blood drying on his chin, sides and legs. But for some reason, he had never felt so comfortable.

So _at peace._

A small, hesitant and un-used smile covered his features as his cheeks were covered in a happy blush, and he felt his eyes drooping, his limbs loosening and he relaxed into his Master's arms.

"Sleep, Marik."

And just like that, a blanket of heavenly unconsciousness swept his senses. Even though he would have liked to lay there for a few seconds, and just enjoy this odd feeling that overwhelmed his senses. But alas; it was not to be.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

When he awoke there was something wrong; something very, very wrong. There was something missing.

Slowly, unbelievingly he reached up, and he gasped when he reached his neck.

Nothing.

The lack of the collar that he had felt tightly wound around his Adam's apple nearly caused him to hyperventilate. He sat bolt upright, looking around franticly, searching with wide eyes for the symbol that he truly belonged to Bakura. When he found it nowhere, he started frantically searching the drawer's, under the bed, although he came up empty-handed.

He turned to the door.

The wide-open door.

He just stayed like that, not processing why the door was open. Surely his God had just forgotten it? But that was so out of the ordinary, his idol was not that stupid.

The more possibilities that entered his head, the more nervous he became. The shaking started in his knees, spreading to the rest of his legs, then torso, arms, finally he fell backwards, scooting into the corner as if a dog was snapping at his toes, and he kicked and screamed in his corner silently. Crazed eyes stared around the room, looking for his deity.

Anywhere, everywhere.

Nothing.

His eyes were shaking, his blood was curdling. He knew it. Why? Why was he reacting so strongly?

Surely this was all some mistake or dream?

This wasn't anything serious.

Marik immediately felt cross with himself for thinking anything was weird, different. By tonight everything would be back to normal; his captor would come and his world would be together once again. The laughter that ensued was like bile; it bubbled from his throat like acid. He retched. It burned and scared him but he couldn't stop. How could he be so stupid?

Bakura would come back.

Bakura would be here.

Bakura _needed _him.

And he just sat there in the corner, as the laughter became so strong he was forced to hold his abdomen and ribs. His hands traveled up to his head and clutched onto it harshly, as everywhere and everything he saw turned white. Those bloody white walls were driving him insane, and it was _hilarious. _He ripped and tore at his hair and all there was were those mental giggles that so contagiously spread through his body, stealing his breath away. Tears began to stream down his tanned cheeks from the fury of his chuckles, and the grin that spread across his face was less than sane.

He didn't know how long he just sat like that, laughing. It could have been minutes, maybe it was hours. But slowly it began to die down, until he was just sitting there, staring ahead.

Bakura would come back.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

It seemed like hours had passed, and he clutched his stomach as it grumbled angrily. He glanced around the room.

It seemed Bakura had forgotten to set his food out.

Just a coincidence, there was nothing to it.

Just a coincidence.

Bakura would come back.

Paranoia swept his senses, and the laughter and humor of the situation was now lost on him. He glanced around the room, to the ceiling, the shadows, then to his own body, still covered and dried in blood. Blood caked him and cracked on his tanned thighs, where a distant ache was still present. Where was Bakura? Surely the man should have been back by now?

The fear captured his heart so fervently it took nearly all his will to not just scream. His pupils were dilated and his throat was so dry it burned. Now he shook in his corner for completely different reasons. Within seconds, that wasn't good enough; he needed to move. He had scrambled up, looking for anywhere to hide from the anxiety that was overwhelming him. With little to no thought he stumbled over to the drawer, Bakura's drawer, taking out the imposing knife that he was all too familiar with.

He could remember his Master threatening him with it when he'd first been brought here.

As the memories of his safe, angry and hateful world rushed back to him the fear began to edge away, till he could see clearly again. Still, his nerves had been frayed, and he curled up as small as he could go, hugging the knife closer to his chest as it's sharp edges pricked against the palm of his hand that defiantly held it close. He closed his eyes, and he felt relief coursing through him at the familiar pain that prickled his fingertips and palm.

Bakura would come back.

Right?

Right.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

Sob.

As the hours turned into days, the tears continued to fall, and the pain he felt grew only larger. The hunger and thirst that him were like nothing he'd felt before; it was as if someone was stabbing him from the inside. He relished it. But as the pain grew and he became positive this wasn't some sick joke, nor was it some stupid mistake, his anger began to take hold.

Where was Bakura?

Where was that little _fucker_?

The madness that had clenched his mind made his tears come to a stop. The trembling that engulfed his fingers slowed. His breathing became unnecessarily quiet.

It was Bakura's _fault_.

Marik's grip on the knife tightened, his eyes wide and unforgiving.

His Master had made a _mistake._

The door creaked open a little, and Marik's eyes flickered up.

"Marik...? No! Idiot, you were meant to leave! That's why I unchained you." A pause. "I meant for you to be free... You must be starving – Marik...?"

His Master needed punishment.

Bakura began to back away uneasily when the hollow vessel started walking towards him.

"Marik. the Monster's voice was uneasy; nervous. "What are you doing?"

And in the name of his God, he would deliver that punishment.

_{i wanted to write about the moment when your addictions no longer hide the truth from you. When your whole life breaks down. That's the moment when you have to somehow choose what your life is going to be about}_

The world seemed to stop as they just stood like that, Bakura's back pressed against the wall, eyes wide, and Marik's rigid form a few feet in front of him, knife clenched in the body's hand. Sympathetic eyes met Bakura's mistaken ones.

"Marik, I asked you a-"

"You made a mistake, Master." The ghoul didn't understand him. Marik needed to be clearer, and before Bakura could open his mouth to question what in the world he was on about, Marik proceeded on. "I need to clean you, make you pretty again. You're very dirty from your mistake."

"What the bloody hell-?" And just like that, the laughter was back.

The humor of the situation was brought to Marik's eyes.

His dull, lifeless violet orbs.

"I need to make you pretty again!" Marik all but screamed joyously, walking forward with that happy grin, on his happy face, with his lifeless lavender eyes. Bakura started to walk forward; a threat. Marik could have none of that; he needed to fulfill his duty.

With a slash, Bakura was one step closer to being cleansed. As the red seeped from his arm, the man gasped, clutching the limb in pain, eyes squeezed shut as the man stumbled backwards, tightly gripping the wound and arms trembling in the hurt that the man seemed to feel.

Marik only stared down with a surprised face, staring at the blood that dripped from the pale arm, and then tilting his face downward more so to see the red liquid that dripped from the steak knife he held in his hand. And there it was once again, that bubbling happiness.

Bakura looked prettier already.

Marik was doing a good job.

The Monster glared at him, angrily, hatefully. Marik felt butterflies form in his stomach and had the urge to swoon.

How he loved that look.

"Fuck! You're gonna' die, you little –"

_Slash._

"Master, Master, Master... I told you, I'm helping you. So I need you to be quiet, alright?"

Marik hummed happily, laughter coming back full-fledged, feeling giddy as the man fell to his knees, hand snapping to the new wound that had been made on his chest, breath haggard. A pained gasp making its way through his lips.

Marik's giggles immediately cut off as the man stopped looking at him, crouched on the floor in pain.

_Mistake._

A rage, so fervent that Marik was seeing _red_ overcame him, and he started shaking. With a cry of rage he kicked the man so he could see his deity, his God with those mahogany eyes. When the face of his ghost was once again visible, Marik gave the phantom a loving grin, eyes soft and caring.

"And you need to keep looking at me, alright?"

"Marik, I fucking swear, if you don't fucking cut this out-!", but his Master's threat fell on deaf ears, as a scream tore through him (even if the pale man wished it not be so), eyes shut in agony. "Stop!"

Marik burst into ripples of laughter again, slashing and cutting and stabbing his love until he was beautiful and _red. _Gasps and screams and cries could be heard from below him, and Marik felt himself subconsciously wondering why the ghoul was not being pleasured. Did Bakura not appreciate what he was doing for him?

His laughter grew and grew, unable to believe how silly the man was being. He slashed deeper, cutting more places, not stopping until the man's clothes were in tatters and there were only small spots that weren't smeared with beauty on them. Still he didn't stop, even as the pale breaths of the man became lighter and lighter, until finally all that was visible was the man's unblemished face, and the rest of his body covered in blood.

Still.

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

Marik stared down at the man, stroking his face as a smear of blood ran down the beauty's scratched and cleansed cheek. It contrasted so much against that snow white skin, and the paper white hair. He just smiled at the man, eyes full of love, and arousal bulging out of his pants. "See, God... I've made you so beautiful... look what I've done in your name..." Marik whispered, stroking the pale chest until his hand was drenched in his beloved irony substance.

Orbs, so deep and full of regret stared up at him, and tears sprinkled down his ivory skin; but he simply smiled back down, and watched his world thank him by bleeding more and more.

"Marik..."

A whisper. So quiet he could barely hear it. His smile only grew, and he felt his heart beat quicker in an anxious expectation, as he waited for the words of hate and rage and resentment that he knew would come.

"Yes?" his silky voice was husky with need, and his arousal grew as he smiled down at his Monster.

Those eyes; they just kept on staring.

"Oh Marik..."the man murmured, and Marik felt himself beginning to grow impatient. Why couldn't his Master blow up in fury already?

Why wasn't the man glaring up at him?

Why?

_Why?_

"Marik, I..."Marik could practically hear he heart speeding up, and the knife nearly slipped from his hand - whether cause by the fact that he was coated in the phantom's blood, or he had began to sweat, he knew not. "I l..."he leaned in more till they were mere inches apart; so his God's words would surely be audible, staring down with eyes full of adoration and insanity, as he stroked his idol's side.

"I love you."

Three words.

Three words were all it took.

The screech that followed the statement was inhuman; it was so twisted and angry and pained that even the darkest shadows and secrets of the world would flinch away.

More blood. More _red_. Marik could feel the psychosis gripping his mind and he slashed the man's chest and legs and face and arms, until all he had was the laughter and the red blood that dripped into his eyes. _"Do you still love me?"_

_{t__he only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely _cut _open}_

"_Tell me, Bakura, do you still love me?"_

"I _hate _you. I hate you! Do you hear me?"__Laughter broke off his sentence, until his head was tilted back and his pupils were so small they were hardly invisible. The knife clattered to the ground, and he straddled the man as the madness overwhelmed his senses. His euphoria of humor could be felt in his finger tips; his toes, every part of his body shook as he screamed and laughed at the man below him. Minutes must have passed like that, until he looked down in silence, staring blankly as he waited for the man to move.

"Master?"

No response.

Marik stared down at the albino, and he came closer, brushing his fingers across the man's lips as he tried to get them to move.

"Bakura?"

No response.

He pressed his lips to the albino's, tasting the tangy sweetness of the ghost's blood.

"God?"

No response.

As the silence grew he found himself unable to breath. Tears began to fall once again from his lifeless eyes that just stared down - and for the life of him, he was unable to understand why the body below him didn't move.

"I made you so pretty, Master... why aren't you thanking me?" The ghost stared up at him with mocking, dead eyes, and the corpse of his deity did not move.

No response.

He felt no anger – just sadness. How could Bakura not appreciate everything Marik had done for him?

"Don't you hate me?"

No response.

And then,

"Don't you love me?"

No response.

_{it's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything}_

A knife was picked up, and in the moments after that, a tanned Egyptian boy made the last sacrifice he would ever give to his God.

"I love you, Master. But you can't love me. It's against the rules."

_Inhale._

Exhale.

_Inhale._

Splatter.

Exhale -

silence.

xxx

"_That saying, about how you always kill the thing you love? Well, it works both ways."_

xxx

**I hope you like it. ;-; Me no-no think I did good…**

**BUT I WANNA GIVE A HUGE THANKS TO ROHANFOX FOR DOING THE AWESOMEST BETA JOB EVERRR. Seriously. This story wouldn't be half as awesome if I'd had my usual beta do it! Thank gawd my usual beta doesn't like gore or she might see that, ne? xD ANYHOW. YESSS. ADELE IS AHMAZING. (:**

**Wuz your birthday good?**

**And…**

**How old are you turning again…? . XDD **

**SORRY FOR BEING LATE. I LUFF YOU. 8D Now go read your fluffy oneshot. LOL. It has tentacles! O.O**


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